That'll Be The Door
by Painton
Summary: Dwalin was so unlike his brother, but is it any wonder? Balin at least had known a few happy years in Erebor before the coming of the dragon, but Dwalin took strength from sorrow and lived longer than any other dwarf, surviving the turmoil that ended the Third Age, building his family as he helped to rebuild a kingdom. A book-based history of Dwalin son of Fundin. No Slash
1. Chapter 1

**This story was inspired by the very lovely _charathwen_, and I hope she likes it. If you've read my other Hobbit story, then you know I'm a stickler for Canon, so please politely tell me if you find any mistakes. The dwarf women are all characters of my own devising, of course, but even the most original-seeming ideas have at their core a seed put there by Professor Tolkien. I thank him for letting me play in the garden that he planted.**

* * *

_Erebor, T.A. 2763:_

_Fundin looked down as Nar placed the squirming bundle in his arms. In the room behind him, he could hear the midwife speaking soothing words to his wife. It had been a difficult birth, and many steaming bowls of water had been carried into the room only to be carried out moments later, red and full of bloody cloth, but Nai was alive, and the dwarfling in Fundin's arms was alive and strong and crying out in a powerful voice_

_"What shall we call the little one," Nar asked. "He has a strong brow like his father_

_Fundin pushed back the cloth and looked into the face of his firstborn son. "He has his mother's eyes," he said, smiling and tickling the stubble under the dwarfling's chin. "Balin. My son is named Balin. He will be wise and brave, and he will live in this mountain, in the halls of his fathers, and here he will prosper."_

.

The Iron Hills, T.A. 2772:

Fundin looked down at the dirt floor and frowned. His words had proved false, for not seven years after the birth of his firstborn, calamity had come down upon Erebor and dashed to pieces all the dreams that he had for his son. It was a blessing that Nai had survived at all, and even more that she had escaped from the Mountain with their young son while Fundin was trapped in the Second Hall, fighting against the dragon.

After a siege of three days, Smaug had broken through the gate and laid a path of ruin through the Mountain. He stalked from hall to hall, devouring and destroying all that he found. The great works of the Dwarves, their forges and mines, their carvings and their works of beauty, all were destroyed that were not gold or precious jewels.

And then the battle had been lost. All those who could run had fled out of whatever side doors or passage that they could find.

Fundin had held his company together for as long as he could to delay the dragon and win time for the women and children to flee, but Smaug had not been idle while the gates held him back. He had broken the sides of the mountain in his anger and burned the forests. Many hundreds of dwarves had been trapped under collapsing halls and there was no time to free those that had not been crushed. Many of those who had not been trapped by falling stone had fled, running for many miles through secret tunnels only to find that the lesser doors were blocked from the outside and the dragon's fire was behind them. There was no place to hide.

The dead were uncounted, and their tomb was the Mountain itself. There was no knowing how many of his friends and kin had escaped and fled, how many had died under the dragon's feet or in his flame or suffocated from the smoke of his breath. After the dragon had moved on, Fundin lay unconscious among the burned bodies of his comrades, and when he woke, there were few dwarves left alive in Erebor. The silver lanterns had all gone out and the only light was the dragon's fire that still burned on the bodies of the dead.

Fundin had gathered his weapons and gathered all the survivors that he could find, three injured soldiers and one dwarf woman. He led them by the firelight to a narrow stair that he knew and then, following his nose, he rallied their spirits and urged them up and up until they found a broken window that was not wholly blocked up with stone. They broke free and made their way down the eastern side of the mountain, limping and crying out in their grief.

It was another miracle, a third miracle, which led him to find his family again. He had thought them dead and buried under the Mountain, lost to him forever, but near the woods that edged the southeast spur of the Mountain and only a few miles from the bend of the River Running, Fundin's small company had found a camp of survivors. There were many wounded, and many more in grief, but in the camp of the refugees among the bleeding and the broken, Fundin had found his wife and son again.

The reunion was beautiful and many tears were shed, but afterwards they had gone east with the others to the Iron Hills. It was a long and weary walk with few supplies, but at the end of it, King Gror and his heir, Nain, had gladly taken in their kin and bandaged the wounds caused by the dragon.

In the east, Fundin had found Farin, his father and many others that they had feared dead who had also picked their way east. Slowly, word came to them that many more of their folk had survived as well. Thror, Thrain and young Thorin had somehow escaped and had gone south with a small company. Fundin's brother Groin had been with them and Gris, his wife.

Standing in a dim-lit hall of crudely carved stone beneath the ore-filled Hills of Iron, Fundin frowned and smoked his pipe. After the dragons had killed Dain and Fror, his grandfather had left the Grey Mountains with so many others. Borin had chosen to follow Thror and return to Erebor rather than join Gror in the Iron Hills. Fate had made Fundin's choice for him, but if King Thror still lived, then he must go to him; he knew that he could not live here in peace and forget the loyalty that he owed to Durin's heir and the eldest son of Dain.

The door opened behind him, and Fundin put aside his pipe. Nar appeared with a bundle of cloth and put it into his arms. The old dwarf smiled sadly, though the fire-burned half of his face did not move. "What shall we call the little one?" he asked.

Fundin did not answer. He could not look down at the face of his second-born son. He heard the soft words being spoken in the room behind him and was transported back to the great halls of Erebor. This birth had not been difficult, but Nai was stronger now. She had fought for their family and survived the harsh blow that had been dealt to her with the loss of Erebor. Her sister, Thrain's wife, had not escaped the dragon. Though her children were alive with Thror, Nis was gone to the Dwarf-halls and she sat and drank with Mahal, awaiting the final change of the world.

"Da?"

Fundin looked down at his eldest son. Balin was only nine years old, but the wisps of his brown beard were already filling in. In spite of his age, he was wise, as his father had predicted he would be, but the prosperity of his youth was in iron-ore and not the shinning gold of Erebor.

"Can I see him, da? Before I go to mum?"

Fundin smiled and knelt down, holding out the small bundle for Balin to see. This dwarfling was small, almost too small, but his black beard was long enough to curl upon his chin. He did not cry out but made a soft grunt in his throat when Balin squeezed his arm.

"What's his name, da? Does he have one?"

"Dwalin," Fundin said. "Your brother's name is Dwalin."

"Dwalin," Balin echoed, and then he screwed up his face. "I suppose that it will have to do."

The midwife had opened the door again and looked out into the hall. She nodded to Fundin, and he in turn nodded to his son. Balin was through the door in an instant, and Fundin could picture the lad hurrying to his mother's side. He was so much like Nai that it was uncanny.

Fundin looked down at the babe in his arms finally and brushed back his curly black hair. "Your elder brother has a kind heart, little Dwalin, but you shall be my strong lad." He lifted the dwarfling in his arms up into the air, and Dwalin laughed as if he knew what was said.

Nar smiled, but shook his head. "He is too small," he said. "He was born too soon. I do not know…"

"He will be my strong son," Fundin repeated. "But he is not strong yet. Not strong enough, and your mother would not let me take you with me even if you were born twice as big."

"Then you mean to make the journey?" Nar asked. "You will go south? Thror is in the White Mountains now, finding work where he can; but if you wait too long, they will have moved on again."

Fundin nodded. "I will go. Not so soon as I meant to, but before the year's end I mean to leave the Iron Hills. Gror has given me leave to go with some others. Farin will not go, not even though Groin, my brother is there and will soon have his own sons. My father still blames Thror for the gold that attracted the dragon. If he will not go, then I must be the one to renew our ties to the old King. I had thought to convince Nai that she should take Balin and come with me, but with such a youngling as we have now, that cannot be done. Farin must look after them while I am away."

The two dwarves stood in silence for a while. Dwalin was sleeping soundly against his father's chest, unaware that his fate was being decided above him.

"When you go south," Nar said, "I will go with you. I miss my friends and do not mean to be parted from my King again."

Fundin nodded. "I would be glad to travel with you, old friend. I am sure that Thror has missed your company very much."

He sighed. "Yes, I must go, but I will return as soon as I am able." He kissed the dwarfling's forehead and nodded. "When my sons are older, then we will follow our King into exile. I hope that by then Thror, or at least Thrain, will have set up a kingdom somewhere…"

* * *

**This one won't be updated as regularly as I would like, but I put a lot of work into my research, so until my other fic finishes up, you'll have to bear with me. Reviews definitely help to increase my work ethic, though… I'm just saying…**

**This story isn't going to be a single narrative but a series of events throughout Dwalin's life, and if you have any event that you'd like to see included, feel free to suggest it.**

**-Paint**


	2. TA 2774 - 2779

T.A. 2774; Ered Nimrais

Dwalin was less than a year in this world when Fundin and Nar and a dozen other strong dwarves left the Iron Hills and began the long journey south. They crossed the land between Celduin and Carnen and entered Rhovanion, the Wilderland, there, they skirted the eastern edge of Greenwood until they reached the bight. Some dwarves through they might take the Old Forest Road and thereby come down to Rohan along the Anduin, but the woodmen there were strange and unfriendly, and Fundin knew that there were still some scattered villages of men near the East Bight. Men who had not gone west nor south after the wars.

Near the bight, the dwarves found also a few newcomers, survivors of Dale who had fled the Long Lake and the dragon entirely. Fundin and his company made what money they could working forge and mending metal until they had enough coin to resupply and move on.

Once more, footsore and homesick for the mountains, they shouldered their packs and continued south over the flat lands until the forest ended and the great river wound down across their path. Above the North Undeep, they crossed over Anduin before the year's end.

From there, the journey was easier. They climbed over the hilly lands and onto the plains ruled by the horse-lords of Rohan. It was a new kingdom, by the reckoning of dwarves, but its people were proud and dangerous. There were fewer villages there in which the dwarves might find work, but they earned their bread at house and homestead, mending tools and shoeing horses. They crossed the Entwash in the early autumn and camped at the feet of Ered Nimrais only a few weeks later.

There were not many dwarf settlements in the White Mountains at that time, and Fundin's company soon found King Thror and the survivors of Erebor in a village west of the Firien wood. The King and his dwarves had built what settlements they could beside the Mering stream but they were already making plans to move on after the changing of the year.

Thror was beaming with gladness to see his kinsman, but it was the reunion of Thror with his old friend that filled every dwarf who saw it with gladness. The King embraced Nar and wept for joy. Both dwarves swore never to be separated again. Thror gave welcome to each and every loyal dwarf that had made the long and dangerous journey. Even the usually dour Thrain son of Thror smiled broadly to see that his father's rule had not been wholly forgotten by the refugees in the Iron Hills.

More hands were needed, even if they brought more mouths to feed, and the dwarves from the north were given shelter and a warm welcoming feast. While his grandson, Thorin, oversaw the celebrations of his people, the deposed King walked to the woods with his cousin and his son.

"How was your leaving, cousin?" Thror asked when they were far enough from the camp that only the trees would hear them.

"Gror could not refuse our request. He knows the ties of kinship must be honored, but Nain was not pleased. Neither he nor his father were there when our people farewelled us from the main gate."

Thror nodded, but Thrain scowled. "Gror is a steady fellow," he said, "but he has always looked with a little too keen an interest into the affairs of our family. He has never been satisfied to be the youngest son of his father."

"I do not half doubt that he was glad to see the dragon take hold of our gold and treasures," Thror agreed, "though I know that no dwarf could wish harm upon his own folk. If the mountain could have been sacked with no loss of life, then I dare say he would not have mourned our loss."

"Gror has been very kind to your people, cousin," Fundin said gently. "And the dragon is a threat not dealt with. The Iron Hills will not be safe so long as that devilish worm lies so close to them. And Dale was destroyed."

"That I have seen," Thror said, "and I grieve for the people of that fair city, Men though they were. But your family is safe?"

"Yes, all safe and whole, and growing. Nai gave birth to my second son. He will be not two years old by now."

"Then you have been far too generous with your time, cousin, to come searching for an old dwarf and leave your youngling behind. You must not stay with us but return to your wife and children. They need you more than we do here."

"I do not mean to stay long," Fundin agreed, "but I could not rest until I had seen with my own eyes that my kinsmen and my king still lived. To find you and your son and grandson all survived, with Frerin and Dis, Groin and Gris… it is more than I had hoped for."

"It is more than any of us hoped for," Thror said, "and yet there are still some losses that are hard to bear." He looked around and saw that Thrain had walked some distance away and would not hear them.

Even so, the old king spoke quietly. "How did Nai take the news?" he asked.

Fundin shook his head. "Not well. The death of her sister struck her hard. Harder than the loss of her home, I think. If the dragon had claimed Balin as well…" He shook his head. "But I will not think on that. My wife and my son survived, and now I have a new son. Though the loss of his wife will pain him, I am glad that Thrain has his sons and his daughter to comfort him, and his father, too. How does Thorin? He was the jewel of his mother's eye."

"That he was, but he is young, and it is easier for the young to move on from their losses."

Fundin put his arm around his cousin, but Thror was not smiling. "Yes, we have many things to be glad of," he said, "but we will not always be a homeless and beggared people. Let Smaug sleep upon our gold for now; he will not keep it long."

Fundin's smile dropped away as he saw the gleam in the old king's eye. He had seen it before, the jealous and lusting look that Thror had given to the piles of gold hoarded up in Erebor's treasuries. It was more gold than they needed for trade, and most of it was not even wrought into things of beauty but left to lie as bricks and coin, walked upon by any who entered those rooms.

He saw the king turning upon his finger an old ring, tarnished and unlovely with a cloudy yellow stone, and Fundin frowned. He had seen that ring before upon his king's hand. It might have been chance that saved this one, small token, when all of their other treasures were lost, but he had often thought it strange that Thror was so possessive of that circle of iron, more than he was of anything else in his hoard, more even than the Arkenstone that to all others had seemed to be his prize.

With regret, Fundin realized that he would not be able to leave Ered Nimrais and return to his wife and sons just yet. His king needed him, and his honor demanded that he remain with Thror.

.

T.A. 2776 South of Nan Curunir

Two Years Later

Fundin lumbered into the forge, weighted down under a heavy bag of coal nearly as large as himself. One of the tall men was sitting upon a stump near the door smoking a pipe, but he did not offer any aid to the dwarf and the dwarf did not expect him to.

"Here, now, lad," Groin called, "You keep carrying so much weight on those shoulders and soon I'll be the taller of us!" He joked, but he hurried to help his brother set down the bag without spilling.

"Is that what has made you so much wider, brother?" Fundin said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I've seen you lugging your lad about with you, tucked up under your arm."

Groin patted his ample belly and laughed. "All muscle there," he said. "And you'll need all you can get when you return to your own sons. Your eldest will be a strapping lad in no time. Oin shall be put to it when they finally meet."

"Aye," Fundin agreed, but he was not as cheerful as his brother. The memory of his two sons, and of his wife, whom he missed was enough to dampen any cheerful mood. Even seeing his nephew growing stronger by the day was bitter sweet when he remembered that his own youngest son would be two years older and perhaps wondering where his father was.

Groin saw his brother's frown and knew what he was thinking of. "You'll be leaving us soon, then?"

Fundin nodded. "I have been gone too long. I am afraid that another year more and Nai will have my head for it if I dare to return at all."

Groin smiled. "She is a hard one, that wife of yours, but you have been hard on her."

"I have spoken with Thror, and he agrees that I must part with you here. He means to go west again, this time past the Misty Mountains and into Dunland on the west. There is more chance for work there, and the quartz in those hills might buy sweeter bread for our young ones. But I wish…" He frowned and did not speak the doubt that was in his heart.

Groin nodded. "I worry for out King as well, brother, but he is healing from the loss. Not that he will ever give up on reclaiming Erebor, but he knows now that we must regain our strength and gather our people again. In Dunland we shall begin to rebuild."

"In Dunland," Fundin said, but he was not so optimistic as his brother. He knew that Thror was not resigned to his exile. He had not given up regaining his kingdom, but Erebor was not his only aim. The name of Moria, which had seldom been spoken among their kin had come too easily to Thror's lips in recent days. It was not lost on Fundin that Thror's journey had taken him closer and closer to that lost realm.

Groin grasped his brother's shoulder tight. "I will miss you."

"And I you, brother, but it will not be for long. Once Dwalin is old enough, I shall take my sons to meet their cousin, and their very wide uncle." He winked at his brother. "When my sons are old enough, they too shall follow their king into exile."

It was Groin's turn to frown. "Will Nai agree to that?" he said.

"I shall convince her. She has lost so much already and will wish to be among family," Fundin said. "I wish to be among my kin where I can be of use."

.

T.A. 2779; Iron Hills

Seven Years Later

Balin stood against the wall, chewing the end of his beard and listening hard to hear the quiet words that were being spoken on the other side of the door. Dwalin sat on the floor at his feet. His brother was no longer the runt that he used to be, but still he was smaller than other dwarf lads his age, and his beard had grown in thin.

Balin was proud of his own increasing height, which he was sure would one day make him taller than any other lad in the Iron Hills. At least, he had been proud of it. Now, as he listened to his mother and father argue, he wished that he was as small as Dwalin, too small to be taken away into the terrible south.

"Mum and Da are fighting again," Dwalin said. "Why does he do that? Mum always wins."

"I don't think she'll win this time," Balin told him. He slid down the wall and sat beside his brother. "Dwalin, do you know where Dunland is?"

Dwalin pinched up his face as he thought about it. "I don't know," he said finally. "Is it far?"

"Yes, it is very far, far away. It is almost as far as our father went the last time he went away when he was gone for years and years."

"Uh-huh." Dwalin went back to scratching shapes on the dirt floor with a bent iron nail. It had meant very little to him that their father had been gone. After all, he had been a dwarfling newly born when Fundin left the Iron Hills and journeyed to Ered Nimrais in search of King Thror. Dwalin had reached his fifth year before their father returned; to him he had been meeting a stranger and not his father. It had taken weeks for Nai to convince him to accept Fundin as his Da.

Even now, Balin wasn't sure just how much Dwalin understood, that their father was their father and that he should have their love and respect no matter what. If Fundin went away again, he wasn't sure that Dwalin would remember him when he next returned.

Balin wasn't sure that Dwalin would remember his own brother if their father succeeded in bringing his eldest son south with him.

He knew that his father regretted leaving King Thror to return to his family, and for the last three years he had often said that he would return to Thror's side. Now the time had come, but Fundin wasn't satisfied to go alone. Dwalin was only seven years old, and Nai refused to let him go, but Balin was nearly sixteen. He was young and green, but not too young to travel in a large company of well-armed dwarves. Many of those who had survived Erebor had nursed their wounds, refilled their coffers and were now ready to go in search of their king.

Gror had been reluctant to give them leave to go; after nearly ten years, he counted the Erebor refugees among his own people to lead, and the money that they had earned they had dug from the Hills that Gror ruled. But the refugees did not feel the same. It was the dwarves of Erebor who had decided to leave the Iron Hills, and knowing that Fundin wished to go also, they had asked him to lead them to the King.

Fundin had made up his mind long ago to bring at least one of his sons with him. He would have preferred Dwalin, who had been his favorite as an infant. He did not want to leave Dwalin again for so long, to be forgotten again; it had pained him to return to his young son and be treated as a stranger. But Nai refused to part with the youngling, and so Balin would have to do. Not that Nai would give up her eldest without a fight, but in this, Fundin would not be denied.

"Dunland is far, far away, Dwalin," Balin told his brother. He took the bent nail from his Dwalin's hand and began drawing in the dirt a poor map of the lands west of Rhun. His geography was rusty, only what he had learned from his teachers which had been mostly the lands about the River Carnen down to the Sea of Rhun, but he knew enough to know that Dunland was farther from his brother than he wanted to be.

"Here are we in the Iron Hills," he said, drawing the curve of the hills east of the Gray Mountains. "And here is the Great Greenwood, a forest so large and full of trees that you could get lost in it for weeks and never walk the same path twice. Past the Greenwood are the Misty Mountains… here." He drew those as well, and then he frowned. There seemed to be something missing, he did not think that the trees grew up so close to the feet of the mountains.

"Moria!" Dwalin said, making a mark in the dirt with his finger.

"No, not there," Balin said. He wiped away the mark and pointed lower toward the southern end. "There is Moria. Barazinbar, Zirakzigil, and Bundushathur, the three mountains. Those were the ancient home of the dwarves."

"Have you seen them, Balin?"

He shook his head. He no longer heard his parents arguing in the next room, but he did not need to hear to know which side had won, and that he had lost.

"I have not seen those mountains before, but I will see them soon." He looked at his brother sadly and then returned to his drawing. "And here, on the other side of the Misty Mountains is Dunland. That is where our father is going, and where uncle Groin and cousin Oin live with your great uncle, King Thror."

"And you're going, too? I don't want you to go, Balin." Dwalin threw his arms around his brother's waist.

"I don't want to go, either, but father says that I must and if mum cannot change his mind… I love you, little brother. I don't want you to forget me, though it may be years and years until we see each other again."

"I think that mum will win this time," Dwalin said. "She always wins when they argue. She won't let Da take you away from me."

"I hope that you are right, little brother."


	3. TA 2787

**Dwalin: _"What did the dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Is Dain with us?"_**

**Thorin: _"They will not come…"_**

**-TH:AUJ**

* * *

T.A. 2787; the Iron Hills  
Eight years later

Dwalin stood beside the doorway, pressed against the wall and holding his breath. His mother was in the kitchen now; he could hear her low voice singing as she ground the corn for their evening meal. The pantry stood between them, and if he looked around the corner, he could just make out the clay cookie-jar sitting fat and full on the second shelf. He would have to move quickly. Nai had had too much practice keeping young dwarves in line to…

"Dwalin," Nai called. "Bring me three potatoes from the sack there by your knees."

Dwalin looked down and saw the sack just around the door, the loose top sagged open just at the height of his knees. He sighed. "Yes, mum," he said.

"Pick three large ones," she said. "If we feed you well, you'll have a fine, long beard to show your father when he returns."

Dwalin bit his tongue and said nothing. He knew better than to speak his mind where his father was concerned. Nai had taught him with the back of her hand that he must call the old dwarf father, but that did not mean that he had to like it. Fundin was respectable, and Dwalin was grateful for the honor that his family received, being so close in blood to the royal line of Durin, but that did not mean that he had forgiven Fundin for taking Balin away.

"Here, mum," he said, setting the potatoes gently on the stone table near the grinding stone. He saw her hands were red and the fingers swollen from working the stone over the hard corn kernels. No dwarf had ever gone hungry in the Iron Hills, but that did not mean that they did not work hard for their bread.

Dwalin had heard the tales of Erebor that the old dwarves told in the evenings as they smiled through burn-scarred faces and lit their pipes with scar-twisted hands like claws. Nai had tried to protect him from the terrors of the dragon, but even the youngest dwarf-child knew what it meant when the ground rumbled and the sound of thunder rolled east from the Lonely Mountain.

But Dwalin was in love with the danger and the bravery in those tales. At fifteen, he was still a small dwarf, in muscle and in height, much smaller than other lads his age; but dwarves like Nili and Narn, like Glor and his own grand-father Farin, they were much smaller than a dragon, but they had faced down the beast and escaped with their lives, saving many of their folk from the ruin. Their stories gave Dwalin hope and made him work harder when he hammered upon the forge, building the muscles of his arms that seemed determined not to grow.

And the gold! Mountains and mountains of gold, they said, that was lying forgotten in Erebor. When Dwalin was not dreaming of glory in battle, he was dreaming of gold, but he knew that he was still too small to win either for his family.

"Let me do that, mum," he said, taking his mother's worn and callused hand in his.

She smiled and shook her head. "I must keep my arms strong," she told him. "I will need them to scold your father when he returns, and to embrace my son, your brother, who will certainly return with him."

Dwalin sighed, but there was little hope in his heart. His mother always spoke of Balin and Fundin as if they were returning in only a few weeks' time, but it had been eight years since Dwalin had last seen his brother.

Companies from Dunland trekked the hundreds of leagues to the Iron Hills several times a year, passing news and trade between them, but not once had Fundin been among them. In the beginning, he had sent many messages, letters written in his fine hand. Every visiting merchant had brought with him a folded parchment or cloth-wrapped toy from Fundin to his wife and son, but there had been no trinkets for two years now, and the only message was the sad shake of the head that the dwarves of Dunland had for Nai when she asked for words from her husband.

Fundin was not dead, that much they knew, but he was busy looking after his king and had little time to think of family. Even so, Nai begged for every word of news that she could get regarding her son, and they knew that Balin had grown strong and brave in Dunland, fighting with his father against the orcs of the Misty Mountains and learning from King Thror and his son and grandson the ways of diplomacy and leadership.

Dwalin hoped that Fundin had more time for the son that was with him than he had for his wife.

Nai touched his face with her rough hand and smiled. "What are you thinking, my son?" she asked, but he did not need to answer. She nodded. "I think of them, too." She sighed and turned back to her grinding stone.

"You need to get out of these caves and have some fun," she said. "Take your father's axe and go to the woods off the southern slope. There are some sheltered trees there. Pretend that they are the legs of the dragon that took our home from us."

Dwalin nodded and left her reluctantly. He knew what she did not say, that he was too small to join the other lads his age who were learning to wield their fathers' weapons for war and not for play. He took Fundin's axe from the wall where it hung, gathering dust in a place of honor, and he left the caves of their home. As he gripped the heavy weapon in his hands, he thought of his father and wondered if it really was the dragon that had taken home and family from Nai.

.

Dwalin was tempted to imagine his father as he hefted the axe and swung. The blade sank a few inches into the thick trunk of a dead tree. It was not deep enough. If he had been out on the field between the arms of the hills, training with the other dwarves, he would have been laughed at and teased. He had seen the shame on the faces of other, smaller dwarf-lads; the ones who were always picked on, and the ones who more often than not ended up in the libraries studying under the old dwarfs for a life of scholarship.

Some of them might make it into the forges, using their minds instead of their arms, or they might take up jewel-working, setting stone into metal or carving the tiny cogs and wheels for the few machines that the dwarves used in their mines. There had been many jewel-smiths in Erebor, but there was not much use for delicate hands in the Iron Hills. Those whose arms were too weak to fight and forge were generally forgotten, left to chip away at the iron in the deep mines underground.

That was no work for the cousin of a king, Dwalin told himself, and he had never given up hope of one day earning his place. He wrenched the axe free from the wood and swung again. The blade sank in deeper this time, and even deeper on the third swing.

"Khazad ai-menu!" With a cry, he swung again, leaping into the air and throwing all of his weight behind the blade. The thick trunk split in two.

He stood, breathing hard and proud of himself, and then he heard the laughter. It burrowed under his skin like itching ants. Shame colored his cheeks, and he spun around, the axe in his hands ready to chop in two whoever had dared to laugh!

A short dwarf-lad was sitting up in the branches of another tree not far from him. Dwalin did not know how long the lad had been watching him, but it had been long enough.

"Come down from there and laugh," he said, hefting the axe in what he hoped was a threatening manner.

"Alright," the other dwarf said, and swung down from the tree.

Dwalin backed away, clutching his weapon. He did not know what to do. He had offered a challenge but had not expected it to be answered. The other dwarf was much larger than he, taller and also older. He guessed that the lad had at least five years on him; his beard was thick and he held his head high and proud.

But the other dwarf had no weapon, and his arms were not as thick as the tough dwarves who trained on the fields between the hills. Reluctantly, Dwalin set aside his axe. He planted his feet and raised his fists; if he had to return to Nai with a bloody noise and black eyes, then at least he would say that he had earned them in a fair fight.

The other dwarf laughed again, but it was a good-natured sound, and he held up his hands. "No, I did not come down to fight," he said. "Only to talk. You have a good axe there, and your arm is strong, but your swing is too wide and you put too much of your back into it. Let me show you."

Dwalin watched as the dwarf picked up Fundin's axe and hefted it in his hands. Once he had the balance, the dwarf swung, using his arms and bending his knees. His swing was much shorter than Dwalin's, but he controlled it well and there was more power to it. The sharp blade cut six inches into the hardest part of the trunk and stuck there.

"That is the way to do it," the dwarf-lad said cheerfully and wrenched the axe out of the wood. "By my beard, that is how you cut an orc in two halves!" He laughed and swung again, cutting the air this time. Dwalin stared at him. He had never seen another dwarf like this one. In his limited experience, the old ones were sullen, the young ones were cruel, but this one seemed always to be laughing genially.

"What is your name, lad?" the dwarf asked him. "Whose axe is this?"

"I am Dwalin," he answered, "Dwalin, son of Fundin." He winced as he said it, but he remembered what his brother had taught him. Always be proud of your father. "He escaped the sack of Erebor and now dwells in Dunland with King Thror," he added, raising his chin.

The other dwarf frowned and seemed about to say one thing, but he shook his head and instead said another. "Then you are my cousin. I am Dain son of Nain son of Gror, who rules these hills."

"Cousins?" Dwalin said, looking at the lad with new eyes.

Dain nodded. "But I hope that we will also be friends. You seem a decent fellow, and there are not many dwarves here who have much sense."

Dwalin thought about that. He had seen Lord Gror sitting on his tall chair at feasts and during festivals. The dwarf was old and fat, but his son Nain was strong and proud. Dwalin had never seen Dain before, but he had heard his mother say that although the lad would never be as strong as his grandfather, he would also never be so proud as his father.

"Yes," Dwalin said, nodding. "We shall be friends."

Dain grinned. "Next time we meet, I shall show you my grandfather's war hammer," he said. He took Dwalin by the shoulders and beamed down at him. And then, suddenly, he pulled him sharply forward and knocked their two heads together.

It was not a hard blow, but hard enough to give his head a turn. Dwalin stumbled backwards, staring in surprise and confusion, but Dain was laughing happily and without any trace of cruelty. Dwalin could not help but laugh along with his new friend as he rubbed the growing lump on his forehead.


	4. TA 2791

**This is a _book_-based history. Some elements not detailed in the books may be drawn from the movie, but my primary source, as always, is Tolkien's original works. Please enjoy.**

* * *

T.A. 2790; Dunland  
Three years later

The night was dark and great storms had come down from the mountains. Rain pounded on the roof over their heads as if the giants had come down and were determined to break in, but the shingles were nailed tight with dwarf-made iron and nothing short of a dragon would remove them.

The fire roared cheerfully, but it did little to cheer the long hall that Fundin entered. He saw that his brother had arrived ahead of him, and the young prince, Thorin, was seated on a stool in the corner. He must have just come in from outside, for he still wore his hood and it was dripping wet, but the lad was hunched forward and his hood was drawn up over his head. Soft snores came from beneath it, and Fundin was glad. None of them had slept well the last few nights; the storms were unsettling more than shingles.

With a sigh, Fundin looked at the great chair that sat empty at the far end of the hall. It was a simple thing carved of wood, but it was the King's throne, and it had been gathering dust for nearly five months. On the floor beneath the dais was another stool, but this too was empty. Thrain had not yet arrived.

Fundin pulled his brother aside into a quiet corner where Thorin would not hear them. He felt confident that the lad was dreaming, but it would not be the first time that he had feigned sleep to hear what others would say around him.

"What word is there?" he asked. "Any news at all?"

Groin shook his head. "None since the King left," he said, "but you know this. If there had been any news, Thrain would be the first to know and you the second… unless young Thorin got there first. But you would be the third, anyway."

Fundin sighed and shook his head. It was not a thing to joke about, but his brother had never been a serious dwarf. His son Gloin was taking after his father, but even he knew that there were some things that must not be treated lightly.

"What of Nar?" Fundin asked. "Why have we had no word from him, I wonder. Even if Thror was mad, as many are beginning to whisper, Nar has always been a steady fellow. He would not remain silent for so long if there were any way for a message to be sent. It has been four months since they were seen climbing the face of the Redhorn."

"Not quite four months," Groin said gently. "And that Pass is difficult even for a company of young and well-provisioned dwarves. Four months is hardly long enough for two old dwarves to cross over and to find habitable lands where they might send messages, let alone for the message to reach us here."

"Hardly long enough for that," Fundin agreed, "but more than enough time for them to be waylaid by orcs and captured or killed. Only a fool or a madman would wander near to Moria with the orcs growing so numerous and so bold. Thror was never a fool, but Thrain should not have allowed his father to wander alone..."

"I did _not_ allow it," Thrain said, walking into the room. The square, hall served as council chamber and a place for feasts, but no dwarf would ever be at ease surrounded by wooden walls. Thrain sighed and touched the thick beam in the middle of the room. He thought of the proud, smooth stones of Erebor and shook his head.

"You knew my father, Fundin. Do you think that I did not say everything that I could to change his mind? Moria is not ours for the taking, not yet, but he knew that he had no chance at the dragon, not at his age, and he would not be contented here in Dunland, hammering horseshoes instead of fashioning gold."

Thrain sighed. "Perhaps he was mad, as some are saying – do not be so surprised that I have heard those rumors! – but I think that he was only old and tired and heartsick for the home of his fathers. Moria was once the kingdom of Durin… a great kingdom… who among us would not seek a return to home and comfort when cold death comes creeping, even if we know that we may not rest there for long…"

Fundin and Groin exchanged a glance, but there were no words of comfort that they could offer their cousin. Thror's son had yet to take on the title of King, and he still sat below the dais and spoke in his father's name when he was called upon to judge the affairs of their sorry state.

Now, Thrain approached the throne and looked at it sadly for some time before he shook his head and lowered himself into one of the lesser chairs near to his sleeping son. He leaned his arms upon his knees and wrung his hands. He looked into the fire, and the flames reflected red in his eyes. Fundin frowned, seeing the old iron ring that his kinsman turned upon his finger.

For a moment, he thought that it must be the same ring of King Thror's possession, but then he shook his head. That was impossible. Thror would never let the thing leave his hands. Fundin had never spoken of his misgivings regarding Thror's greedy love of gold, and now was not the time for idle speculation.

"It was winter when they set out," Groin said. "It shall soon be spring. Perhaps your father's messengers could not get through the storms…"

"Perhaps…" Thrain said absently, but he did not look up.

Groin wracked his brain for other comforting words, but his thoughts were interrupted by a shout from outside the room. All three dwarves looked toward the doors, and Thorin woke from his doze, jumping to his feet in alarm and reaching for his sword. Before a word could be said or a move made, the large doors burst open and a small dwarf fell forward into the hall and lay still upon the floor. He was old and frail, worn down to skin and bones by hunger and clothed only in rags. His back was bent with fear and toil. Fundin was the first to kneel beside the old dwarf and turn the poor creature over. It was a face that he would not soon forget, changed by suffering and sorrow though it was.

"Nar!" he cried, grieving to see his friend in such a state.

"Nar?" Thrain leapt to his feet. "But where is my father? Where is King Thror?"

The old dwarf gasped and rose to his knees. Fundin reached out to help him, but Nar pushed his hand away. He looked up at Thrain with eyes clouded by age and yet sharp with purpose.

"Your father Thror is dead, my king," he said. "He was killed by the goblins of Moria, beheaded and his body cast to the carrion birds. Thror is dead. Hail, King Thrain!" With that, Nar collapsed into Fundin's arms, sobbing like a child. In his hand was clutched a worn, leather pouch that jingled with the sound of coins, but it was stained black with blood.

"Dead," Thrain echoed. He turned away, looking back and forth at the wooden walls that surrounded him, but his eyes were empty.

"Father?" Thorin reached a hand out to touch his father's arm, but the new king walk past him and up the short steps of the dais to the dusty chair of King Thror. Slowly, Thrain sank down onto his throne.

He sat and could not be moved for seven days and seven nights, neither eating nor sleeping. Fundin and his brother took their turns at watch. One would stand beside their silent king while the other slept in the room where Nar was nursed by the best healers in Dunland, but the old dwarf would not recover. He told his story and delivered the message of the goblins, of Azog the Cruel, and then he slept long and deep and forever, following his friend Thror to the tables of Mahal where they sit at feast with their fathers and nevermore will those two friends be parted unless Ea itself be unmade.

In the long, wooden hall, Fundin relayed all that Nar had said to Thrain as he sat upon his throne, but there was no answer and Thror's son never looked up. No word passed his lips and he sat as one turned to stone.

Seven days passed and seven nights, and then at dawn after the seventh night of watching, as Fundin stood beside him, his face gray with grief and his eyes blinking back sleep, King Thrain stood and in a voice so loud and strong that it could be heard throughout the hall and into surrounding chambers, he cried, "This insult shall not be born! We shall pay them back, the goblin-scum, down to the last brittle bone that breaks under the hammer of our anger. They shall pay!"

.

T.A. 2791; the Iron Hills  
Six months later

Dain stood in the great hall and watched his father pace angrily back and forth before the iron throne. Technically, Gror had given over rule to his son, but when the messenger had come from Dunland, it was not Nain who had been asked for.

Since mid-winter, rumors had flown back and forth among all Seven Kingdoms, so many rumors that it was impossible to know which were true. Some said that Thror had reclaimed Moria, others that he had returned to Erebor and been eaten by the dragon. Some whispered that the King had vanished without a trace and that the strange wizard Tharkun had much to do with the disappearance.

Nain did not know what rumors were true, but he guessed it more likely none of them. The messenger that had come from Dunland was none other than Fundin, cousin to Thrain who was now King of Durin's Folk. Nain had not agreed that his father had allowed Fundin to lead away so many of the dwarves of Erebor, whose skill in metalwork was beyond compare, but as cousin to the new heir of Durin, he would command great respect. If he were playing messenger for Thrain it was only because the news was of too great an importance to trust to lesser dwarves, and it would not be made the subject of petty rumor.

It was further insult to Nain that Fundin had arrived calling for Gror and had paid no heed when told that it was now Nain who ruled the Iron Hills.

Gror and Fundin had been locked in conference for more than an hour, and Nain had remained in the Throne room, waiting for them to emerge. Dain was trapped there with him, for his father refused to allow his own heir to go wandering when there were important matters of state to be discussed.

Dain begrudged every moment that he was trapped in that room with his sullen father and the musty smell of iron and stone. He had promised Dwalin that he would meet him on the southern slope that afternoon so that they might train with their weapons. Already, the young dwarf-lad was growing strong and had put on at least a full stone's worth in muscle. Dain was proud of the lad, and prouder still of his own growing strength of arms.

After nearly two hours, Gror finally returned to them. He came alone for Fundin had gone to seek his wife and son. The Lord of the Iron Hills' face was gray and seemed to have aged more in one morning than he had in the two hundred and twenty eight years of his life.

"Well, father, what news?" Nain demanded as soon as his father opened the door.

But Gror waved him away. He walked slowly to the far end of the hall and lowered himself down onto the throne. It was grander than the throne of King Thrain in Dunland, built of long, iron spears interlaced with silver thread, but Gror was not King of Durin's Folk. Nain watched his father seat on the throne with a frown, but he did not argue.

"My lord?" Dain spoke nervously. He loved his grandfather dearly and had never seen his face so drawn with sorrow, but Gror had just been told that his brother was murdered, and now he grieved for Thror, and for Fror, the brother who had died before him.

"Grandfather?" Dain touched the old dwarf's withered hand.

At the touch, Gror raised his head and looked at his grandson who was not twenty-four years in this world. He smiled, but his smile was grim and strained. "King Thror is dead," he told them. "He was beheaded by the orcs of Moria, his face was branded and his body fed to the crows."

Nain's jealous scowl fell away and he shook his head in astonishment. "They would not dare!" he cried.

"They have dared! And they will pay for the insolence. King Thrain has summoned all Seven Houses. He has sent word to our kin, east, west and south. They will come, and so shall the Dwarves of the Iron Hills. So shall all our folk. The Dwarves have declared war against all goblin-kind!" Gror struck his fist against the iron arm of his chair so that the spears shook and their song echoed throughout the hall.

Dain's heart was stirred to anger and excitement. He stood up straighter, but his father's frown returned.

"Against all the orcs?" he said. "When only one has killed our cousin? That will cost many lives, and is it truly our battle to fight?"

Gror stared down at his son with cold anger in his eyes. "Thror was my brother, your uncle, and he was heir of the line of Durin. Whose battle is it to fight if not ours?"

"I mean no disrespect to you, father," Nain said quickly. "The orcs of Moria must be punished for this, but why fight all the orcs of Middle-earth? Let Thrain have his vengeance if he must. Do not be angry if I speak openly what others will surely whisper behind closed doors. Thror had little sense left after the dragon came. We have all heard that he wandered alone in the wild, and if he wandered near to Moria, are we to be amazed that he was found and killed by an orc?"

"If he walked bare-faced into the mouth of the dragon itself, this insult still would not be borne by me, or by any of my kin!" Gror shouted. "Let men and elves whisper cowardice behind their hands, the Dwarf-folk will defend their honor with blood!"

Nain was rebuked and said nothing in answer, and he never again spoke of refusing Thrain's call.

.

The next day, Dain found Dwalin on the southern slope. They met there most days to talk together or to exercise and train in secret as most dwarf-lads did openly upon the plains between the arms of the hills. On this day, Dwalin had brought no weapon, and he sat with his head bowed to his knees and his hands clasped before him.

Dain sat beside him for some time before he spoke. "You have seen your father, then?" he said.

"Yesterday," Dwalin said. "He is with my mother now, saying his farewells. She was glad for the reunion, but he must return to Dunland."

Dain nodded. He knew better than any other dwarf the grudge that Dwalin held against his father, but there was no reason to speak of it now when the wound was still bleeding.

"Did your father tell you why he is here now?"

Dwalin shrugged. "He had a message from Dunland," he said. "I did not ask. I was glad enough to get away from him." He finally raised his head and saw the pain on his friend's face. "What has happened?"

Dain bowed his head, but he told all that he had heard in the throne room, both the day before when Gror had first spoken, and also this morning in the council where the heads of the other Houses of Dwarves who made their home in the Iron Hills came together. Some few of the Blacklocks and many of the Broadbeams dwelt in the northern arm of the hills and though their lord more often deferred Gror and lately to his son Nain in matters of trade and dealing with the settlements of Men, they ruled themselves according to their own laws.

Dwalin listened to all that Dain said, knowing that his friend felt more than he let show. Dwalin had not known his great-uncle Thror anymore than Dain had known him, but they were kin and the disgrace of his murder was a harsh blow to bear.

"There will be war," Dain said. "Already it has been declared. My father was reluctant, by my grandfather says that it is certain. Word was sent from the Firebeards in the west that they will come. Fundin heard their answer before he set out for the Iron Hills. This morning before the council, he spoke with Nami of the Broadbeams. You will hear about all this soon. War has been declared upon the orcs."

"But which ones?" Dwalin asked. "There are so many…"

Dain clenched his fists. "All of them. We shall pay them back!"

Dwalin sat up straighter but then his shoulders caved. "_You_ shall pay them back," he said. "This war has come too soon for me. You are your father's son and will one day rule in these hills. He will let you fight, but I saw it in my father's eyes though I did not then know what was meant by it. He will not let me go, and even if I were older, my arm is not yet strong enough to wield weapon in battle."

Dain looked at his friend sadly, but even as he did, a new resolve was hardening in his heart. "Then we will make it strong," he said, standing.

Dwalin looked up at him with hope in his eyes.

"You are wrong and my father will not easily let me go to war, not as I stand here," Dain said. "War has been declared, but the armies will not march forth tomorrow. We have time, probably a year or two at least before all is made ready. We shall train together, you and I, and when the time comes, we shall march out together at the front of the line!

"Yes!" Dwalin said, standing and raising his fist.

.

That afternoon, Fundin set out on his return to Dunland. He thought of his youngest son sadly, remembering the smoldering anger in the lad's eyes as he said his farewells. Dwalin was too young to understand the troubles that a grown dwarf must face.

Nai's kiss was still hot on his lips, and for a moment, Fundin wondered if he had been right to choose his King over his family, but there was no time for doubt now. Too much needed to be done. When next he saw Dwalin, he would speak with the lad and tell him all that was in his heart; he would make up for the years already lost, but for now, he must return to Thrain.

.

In the year that followed, the other Houses of the Dwarves would answer King Thrain's call. They mustered their armies and sharpened their axes, but it would be three long years all told before their full might could be gathered in one place and made ready to march upon the orc strongholds in the Grey and Misty Mountains. Not three hundred nor three thousand years would be enough to cool the anger in their hearts for it was as hot as a branding iron fresh from the forge. But the orcs were preparing armies as well and the war that would follow would be counted among the greatest and most grievous of all those fought in all the ages of this Middle-earth.

* * *

**This story is officially on-hold. I know, and I'm sorry, but my other fic is taking up too much time and it was too difficult to switch between the two timelines. I have not forgotten poor, young Dwalin, but he will have to wait a little longer to win his honor in battle... and to meet his wife ;-)**

**Probably once winter arrives and there is snow on the ground, I will be trapped indoors with little to do and will have more time to spend writing. Until then, thank you for your readership and feel free to leave a review telling me to get my butt back over here and finish the story!**

**-Paint**


End file.
